The evening was San Francisco warm, and the summer light was just beginning to fade when I saw them standing there, our hares, proud with cautious grins dancing on their faces. They ran abreast down the sidewalk and disappeared into the distance, Big Cock Chains watching wistfully as they were carried away with the optimism of their youth. Did he suspect yet then what was to come? Not even Dick Simmons captured the answer to that one.

We waited the requisite fifteen minutes, united briefly by streams of conversation, Uniballer’s beer the only casualty of our distractions. We petted Just Jasper, laughed with Hand Pump, tossed the shit with our virgin, and generally ignored the pressing business of the evening until Just Doesn’t Get It’s whistle blew and the pounding footsteps of The Perfect Woman lured us away.

Geary couldn’t halt Dickweed, and the first check barely slowed One and Done down, most of the pack united to thwart the wiles of the hares. We dashed past USF, ignoring the hares’ offering of turkey trails with the hopes of adventure in our hearts.

Was it there that we first saw him? To Cockamole he seemed comical, to Stinky Floss he was but an obstacle, but to me? I felt recognition in the pit of my soul of something older than the Boy that he appeared to be. Quickly, but not quickly enough, he vanished, and we were alone on trail again.

“On On!” Mary Tyler Whore called out to us. “This way!” She directed Worst Bottom Ever onward, Deadbeat at his heels, and we were back in the thick of it. By the Best Buy, past the hospital, twisting left then right again and it seemed like no time at all before he was with us once more.

This time even Wee Wee and Fuck Buddy could not ignore him, as they slowed their pace to a halt beside me as I gripped him by his chest and held him in place. The Tall Boy looked back at us with baleful eyes full of inevitability. He did not struggle at all, but he was cold as ice in my hands and when I shoved him over to Bierectional his lack of resistance was more threatening than if he had struggled.

“Crush him!” I whispered, but Bierectional was suddenly powerless against him. The Tall Boy left him with a splitting headache and stood there, watching us, unharmed. We had seen, despite vanquishing him twice, that he was there as strong as ever, and something inside us broke. Trail after that was a blur, running away rather than to, and we darted through park and alley alike with the same growing sense of dread in our bellies. Mouth Down South hands trembled as he drew pack arrows and Dick Ass Mother Fucker began to pray to the skies for help. John Handcock, drenched in sweat, found and lost trail before he found it again. Visions began to appear in our minds, a dread figure that came and went into our bodies as he pleased, invading us to our cores.

It was then that Cuming Mutha and Just Doesn’t Get It roused our hare from his hiding spot, our last source of hope in our darkest hour. “How did you get here so quickly?” Hello Titties grinned cheerfully, as we stared at him agog.

“We had some difficulties,” Slap A Bag of Dickz informed him. “The Tall Boy? He gave us a spot of bother...” His voice trailed off as if he too was incredulous of his own words.

Hello Titties looked down at his note. “Oh, yes. Cirque du So Lame said that could be an issue.” He hummed softly. “Did you try drinking him?”

“Oh,” said Hello Titties muttered. “Oh yes, in that case we have to—RUN!”

And there he was again coming steadily down the street towards us.

“I’m out of here!” Resting Slut Face shouted, but it was too late and the Tall Boy was upon him. Millimeter Peter was in is grasp soon after, and Dildo Baggins immediately followed. Muff Daddy, in the middle of relieving himself, was just as soon whisked away, to the chagrin of Brown Eye and the police officers he had been alerting. Tuna on Top opened her mouth to suggest a plan, but Good Shit held up a hand firmly.

“Got a problem with a Tall Boy?” he raised his eyebrows suggestively. “I know how to handle that.” We watched him go, the small group of us remaining, and our hearts saluted his bravery though our teeth were clenched with fear.

A short time later, he was back, Cheese Turd and Sister Fister in tow laughing and joking. Hand Pump pulled out the keg, and Sleazy Like Sunday Whoring vended her wares. Not long after Just Mana and Just Pham arrived, followed by Gobble My Ass. We began to prattle on as if nothing unusual had happened, as if our numbers were not diminished at all. Perhaps indeed, nothing had, for with the addition of beer could we say any of us were there at all?